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      Charlie Codman's Cruise / A Story for Boys

      PREFACE

      In deference to the expressed wishes of some of his young friends, the author has essayed a story of the sea, and now presents "Charlie Codman's Cruise," as the third volume of the Campaign Series. It will be found more adventurous than its predecessors, and the trials which Charlie is called upon to encounter are of a severer character than befell Frank Frost or Paul Prescott. But it will be found that they were met with the same manly spirit, and a like determination to be faithful to duty at all hazards.

      Though not wholly a stranger to the sea, the author is quite aware of the blunders to which a landsman is exposed in treating of matters and a mode of life which, at the best, he must comprehend but imperfectly, and has endeavored to avoid, as far as possible, professional technicalities, as not essential to the interest of the story.

      With these few words he submits the present volume to his young readers, hoping for it a welcome even more generous than has been accorded to "Frank's Campaign" and "Paul Prescott's Charge."

      I.

      CHARLIE AND THE MISER

      Charlie Codman turned out of Washington into Bedford Street just as the clock in the Old South steeple struck two. He was about fourteen, a handsome, well-made boy, with a bright eye and a manly expression. But he was poor. That was evident enough from his clothes, which, though neat and free from dust, were patched in several places. He had a small roll of daily papers under his arm, the remains of his stock in trade, which he had been unable wholly to dispose of.

      Some of my readers may know that the Latin School and English High School are kept in the same building. At two o'clock both are dismissed. Charlie had scarcely passed the school-house when a crowd of boys issued from the school-yard, and he heard his name called from behind. Looking back he recognized a boy somewhat smaller than himself, with whom he had formed an acquaintance some time before.

      "Where are you bound, Charlie?" asked Edwin Banks.

      "I'm going home now."

      "What luck have you had this morning?"

      "Not much. I've got four papers left over, and that will take away about all my profits."

      "What a pity you are poor, Charlie. I wish you could come to school with us."

      "So do I, Eddie. I'd give a good deal to get an education, but I feel that I ought to help mother."

      "Why won't you come some time, and see us, Charlie? Clare and myself would be very glad to see you at any time."

      "I should like to go," said Charlie, "but I don't look fit."

      "Oh, never mind about your clothes. I like you just as well as if you were dressed in style."

      "Perhaps I'll come some time," said Charlie. "I'd invite you to come and see me, but we live in a poor place."

      "Just as if I should care for that. I will come whenever I get an invitation."

      "Then come next Saturday afternoon. I will be waiting for you as you come out of school."

      Charlie little thought where he would be when Saturday came.

      Shortly after the boys separated, and Charlie's attention was arrested by the sight of an old man with a shambling gait, who was bending over and anxiously searching for something on the sidewalk. Charlie recognized him at once as "old Manson, the miser," for this was the name by which he generally went.

      Old Peter Manson was not more than fifty-five, but he looked from fifteen to twenty years older. If his body had been properly cared for, it would have been different; but, one by one, its functions had been blunted and destroyed, and it had become old and out of repair. Peter's face was ploughed with wrinkles. His cheeks were thin, and the skin was yellow and hung in folds. His beard appeared to have received little or no attention for a week, at least, and was now stiff and bristling.

      The miser's dress was not very well fitted to his form. It was in the fashion of twenty years before. Grayish pantaloons, patched in divers places with dark cloth by an unskilful hand; a vest from which the buttons had long since departed, and which was looped together by pieces of string, but not closely enough to conceal a dirty and tattered shirt beneath; a coat in the last stages of shabbiness; while over all hung a faded blue cloak, which Peter wore in all weathers. In the sultriest days of August he might have been seen trudging along in this old mantle, which did him the good service of hiding a multitude of holes and patches, while in January he went no warmer clad. There were some who wondered how he could stand the bitter cold of winter with no more adequate covering; but if Peter's body was as tough as his conscience, there was no fear of his suffering.

      Charlie paused a moment to see what it was that the old man was hunting for.

      "Have you lost anything?" he asked.

      "Yes," said Peter, in quavering accents. "See if you can't find it, that's a good boy. Your eyes are better than mine."

      "What is it?"

      "It is some money, and I—I'm so poor, I can't afford to lose it."

      "How much was it?"

      "It wasn't much, but I'm so poor I need it."

      Charlie espied a cent, lying partially concealed by mud, just beside the curb-stone. He picked it up.

      "This isn't what you lost, is it?"

      "Yes," said Peter, seizing it eagerly. "You're a good boy to find it. A good boy!"

      "Well," thought Charlie, wondering, as the old man hobbled off with his recovered treasure, "I'd rather be poor than care so much for money as that. People say old Peter's worth his thousands. I wonder whether it is so."

      Charlie little dreamed how much old Peter was likely to influence his destiny, and how, at his instigation, before a week had passed over his head, he would find himself in a very disagreeable situation.

      We must follow Peter.

      With his eyes fixed on the ground he shuffled along, making more rapid progress than could have been expected. Occasionally he would stoop down and pick up any little stray object which arrested his attention, even to a crooked pin, which he thrust into his cloak, muttering as he did so, "Save my buying any. I haven't had to buy any pins for more'n ten years, and I don't mean to buy any more while I live. Ha! ha! Folks are so extravagant! They buy things they don't need, or that they might pick up, if they'd only take the trouble to keep their eyes open. 'Tisn't so with old Peter. He's too cunning for that. There goes a young fellow dressed up in the fashion. What he's got on must have cost nigh on to a hundred dollars. What dreadful extravagance! Ha! ha! It hasn't cost old Peter twenty dollars for the last ten years. If he had spent money as some do, he might have been in the poor-house by this time. Ugh! ugh! it costs a dreadful sum to live. If we could only come into the world with natural clothes, like cats, what a deal better it would be. But it costs the most for food. Oh dear! what a dreadful appetite I've got, and I must eat. All the money spent for victuals seem thrown away. I've a good mind, sometimes, to go to the poor-house, where it wouldn't cost me anything. What a blessing it would be to eat, if you could only get food for nothing!"

      It is very clear that Peter would have been far better off, as far as the comforts of life are concerned, in the city almshouse; but there were some little obstacles in the way of his entering. For instance, it would scarcely have been allowed a public pensioner to go round quarterly to collect his rents,—a thing which Peter would hardly have relinquished.

      Reflections upon the cost of living brought to Peter's recollection that he had nothing at home for supper. He accordingly stepped into a baker's shop close at hand.

      "Have you got any bread cheap?" he inquired of the baker.

      "We intend to sell at moderate prices."

      "What do you ask for those loaves?" said the old man, looking wistfully at some fresh loaves piled upon the counter, which had been but a short time out of the oven.

      "Five cents apiece," said the baker. "I'll warrant you will find them good. They are made of the best of flour."

      "Isn't

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